


a plot blacker than the kettle calling the pot

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton: Not so human disaster, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Asexual Character, Asexual James Madison, Asexuality, Banter, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, NaNoWriMo, Pranks, Vampire Hamilton, Vampire Washington, Writer Hamilton, how to train your vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8618275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: Alex learns about his new undead nature like he does everything else: through trial and error (mostly error).





	

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation to my vampire!Alex fic. Enjoy.

“John, please cease poking me with a stake. It has not been funny for at least three hours.”

“On the contrary, this helps me unwind.”

“I did say that I was sorry.”

“Yeah, you did. And I did say that I don't care.”

“John, talk to me,” Alexander sighed. Then—f “And stop poking me with that goddamn stake!”

“What do you want me to say? That I forgive you? That it's okay to think only about yourself? News flash, Alex, it's not!” John burst out. “Your friends have feelings too, and you make a point of coming across as inconsiderate and rude.”

“Well, I am sorry for being a tad preoccupied with the fact that, in case you did not notice, _I am a freaking vampire_!” Alexander shouted back. At this point, he did not care about who would hear the two of them.

John was incensed. “You bit me and drank my blood, of course I noticed. Sometimes life throws you lemons, and that's when you make lemonade, not fucking bite into the lemons and complain that they are sour!”

“How would you suggest I 'deal' with this problem, then?” Alexander taunted. “Since you obviously know so much more about myself than I do.”

John bristled. “I know that you are going through a tough time right now, but Alex, you cannot just forget about everything else. You still have a duty to us, your friends. We care about you, and we worry when you do not take care of yourself properly.”

“Did I ask you to worry about me?” Alexander retorted with as much heat as he could muster.

John glared hard. “You know, I don't have to be here,” he turned to leave, but a surprisingly strong grip on his wrist prevented him from doing so. He winced as the fingers holding him in place began to hurt his skin. “Alex, you're hurting me. Let me go.”

Alexander dropped John's hand, only now conscious of his actions. “Sorry,” he muttered.

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It is– well, it isn't _fine_ , per se, but I see where you are coming from,” he eventually conceded.

Alexander smiled wanly. “For the record, I can see your perspective. I am sincerely sorry that I behaved like a self-centered jackass.”

John forced himself to return the smile. He knew that this truce was only a temporary measure. For as long as they had been friends, they had always had this fight; they always went full circle, only to come back to this point—Alexander would apologize, John would accept his apology and pretend that Alexander would change, but Alexander would not, he would pull some selfish crap again, and John was once again left on thin ice, trying to find it in himself to either forgive Alexander once again, or walk out of his life. So far, he has always chosen the first option because, for all that Alexander was absolutely batshit crazy, he was also a very good friend and a good person when he isn't in one of his writing moods. The question was: where would he draw the line? How does one even decide what is acceptable behaviour for a friend, and what is a step too far?

He was startled out of his thoughts by a question. He looked down at Alexander, who was waiting for his answer expectantly. John blinked. “What?” he said eloquently.

Alexander rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “What are we eating?” he repeated his question.

“Italian," John replied instantly.

“ _John_ ,” Alexander groaned. “You are such a jerk.”

“I learned from the best.”

“No, but seriously, what are we eating?”

John shrugged. “I don't know about you, but I am honestly craving Italian, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Bite me.”

“No, thank you, and that is _not_ an invitation to bite me.”

"This is the moment where I would normally make a 'kinky' comment, but since you're still holding that stake, I'm going to skip that, just once."

"Good choice," John grinned sharply.

* * *

There were certain perks to his new state. For example: he did not need to sleep, which meant that he could write literally all day long. He still needed to pee, which sucked, but on the other hand, he did not need to consume as much food as before. Mirrors were a no-no, and so were any kinds of motion detectors. He avoided garlic like fire, the last time he ate some still fresh in his mind. Animals tended to avoid him. He was stronger, faster, and had better hearing. That last thing was not always a good thing, since his neighbour was a certain Thomas Jefferson, lawyer and pain in the ass extraordinaire.

Alexander sometimes cursed his superior hearing because there were some things about Thomas Jefferson that he simply did not need to know. Case in point: his sexcapades (which Alexander could, unfortunately, recite in excruciating detail). Or the fact that Alexander's editor, James Madison, refused to satisfy Jefferson's sexual urges, saying that he was asexual and, really, not all that interested in what was in Jefferson's pants (which was the first thing Alexander ever found himself agreeing on with his editor). Jefferson was all smooth-talk: he was understanding and wanted to stay together for ever and ever, but Alex still got to hear how, in the darkness of the night, long after Madison had left, Jefferson was seeking release on his own, sometimes calling out Madison's name. It just figured that Jefferson would not shut up even during sex.

It was just as well that Alex didn't need to sleep, because if he did, he would have started banging on Jefferson's door a long time ago, and asked him to keep it down. Jefferson would open the door unhurriedly, slowing down his tempo as if to prove that he has all the time in the world and is willing to use it. He would be a bag of dicks about Alexander's request, and he would, in that slow Southern drawl of his, insult his entire family tree and his mother's marital status and self-restraint. In return, Alex would question whether Jefferson was dropped on his head as a baby, to which Jefferson would say that Alex was quite touched, which is where Alex would punch Jefferson unless another neighbour emerged from their apartments and complained that they should shut up and let everyone else sleep.

Jefferson would get protective of Madison. Being the drama queen that he was, he came banging down on Alexander's door whenever Madison left, threatening that Alexander needed to be more careful and nicer to James, or else. (He never did specify what the 'or else' was.) When questioned on why he was fiercely so protective of Madison, he retorted that Madison was tiny, a mere 5'4, and clearly needed someone to stand up for him, and really, why not Jefferson? At this point, Alexander took immense pleasure in shutting the door in Jefferson's face, hoping for the tell-tale screech that meant that it smashed Jefferson in his nose.

Madison got caught between Alexander and Jefferson in their most recent prank war—though, at this point, it was less of a war and more of an all-out battle with atomic bombs and blood everywhere, and the mood was less that of a 'prank' and more something along the lines of 'I will literally gut you the next time I see you'.

The latest prank war and been brewing for weeks, ever since Alexander complained about Jefferson's tendency to leave his garbage right outside of Alexander's apartment, to which Jefferson replied that he did no such thing. As revenge, Alexander painted the handle to Jefferson's apartment door in a bright yellow colour that just refused to dry. In turn, Jefferson set up no less than seventeen separate appointments for Alexander with various plumbers, electricians, painters, and pest control. Alexander then informed the local Jehovah's witnesses that a certain Thomas Jefferson was seeking salvation and that they are invited on Friday afternoon. Jefferson built in loudspeakers, aimed them specifically at Alexander's apartment, and put on an annoying playlist when he left for work. Alexander began sending Jefferson entire boxes marked 'for lonely gentlemen', filled with sex toys. Jefferson glued the lock to Alexander's apartment, then taped shut the entrance with a yellow police tape for good measure.

It was at this point that James Madison intervened. “You are both grown men, behave like it,” he snapped at the two neighbours.

Jefferson glared at Alexander.

Alexander glared back.

Madison groaned. “I rescind that. You are two actual children. I hope you are happy with each other. Try not to set anything on fire,” he threw up his hands and stalked off.

Alexander smirked at Jefferson. “You'd better run after your boyfriend,” he mocked.

“Fuck you,” Jefferson snapped, but ran off after Madison.

“Save it for Madison,” Alexander called after Jefferson.

Alexander resolved to invite Madison over more often, as it seemed to render Jefferson less annoying—or, at least, unable to argue with Alexander.

* * *

The next time Madison stopped by for a manuscript of the latest four chapters, he glared at Alexander. “I know you hate him,” Madison said, “but please at least pretend to play nice with Thomas, if only for me.”

Alexander snorted as he handed over the relevant papers. “Are we talking about the same Thomas Jefferson here?” he asked sarcastically. “Freakishly tall, atrocious afro on his head, wearing those ridiculous magenta jackets—that Thomas Jefferson?” he asked to ascertain.

Madison sighed. “Yes, that Thomas,” he busied himself with putting the papers into his satchel. “He is remarkably courteous once you get to know him.”

“Courteous? You have clearly been bitten by the Jefferson bug.”

Madison smiled. “See, that is funny, because Thomas said the exact same thing about you,” he remarked. “I think that, if you tried to find common ground instead of fighting about every issue known to man, you would realize that you are a lot more alike than you think.

Alexander held up three fingers. “There are three things wrong with that statement. One: I am _nothing_ like Thomas Jefferson, and I take offense to you even implying such a thing. Two, contrary to popular belief, I am not actually trying to start any fight, it simply so happens that Jefferson's opinions are so misguided that they might as well be taken straight out of Narnia and I feel that someone ought to point that out to him. And three, did you talk to Jefferson before me?” he fixed Madison with a look. “You did, didn't you?” he said, a smirk adorning his face.

Madison gritted his teeth. “Yes, I did.”

Alexander clutched his chest at the height of his heart. “I am wounded, James Madison. Truly.”

Madison grabbed his satchel and headed for the door. “Goodbye, Hamilton. See you next week.”

* * *

In retrospect, Alex counted himself lucky that he had met Washington. Washington made his existence, undead though it might be, so much more bearable. Without him, Alexander would still be cooped up in his apartment, occasionally clumsily drinking John's blood.

As he later learned, Washington was a patron at a bar to which John dragged Alexander in an attempt to make him socialize because 'being undead is no excuse to ditch your friends, and, really, Alex, you promised'.

“C'mon, it'll be fun!” John said. He frowned at Alexander. "Alex, you promised me that you would not just sit here all by your lonesome. You said that you would socialize."

"I like to sit here 'all by my lonesome'," Alexander protested. "Besides, I am not alone. I've got my books," he indicated the book shelves taking up every part of one of the walls.

"Books do not count as sentient company," John insisted. He grabbed Alexander's sleeve and attempted to pull him up from the armchair. Alexander resisted.

Alexander glared. John remained unaffected. “ _John_ ,” he groaned, “You know that I don't want to.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, if you got to choose, you would sit here in your apartment for the rest of eternity and write those books of yours.”

“I'll have you know that 'those books' of mine are New York Times Bestsellers,” Alexander retorted.

“I don't care if they're the Constitution—you are going out and that's final,” John declared.

Alexander put his hands on his hips. “Oh, really?” he challenged. “And what are you doing to do if I don't come along?”

John grinned and held up a transparent bag. Inside it were at least two pounds of garlic. Alexander glared. “Sometimes,” he intoned, “I really hate you.”

* * *

That was the story of how Alexander Hamilton found himself at Bar 54, sipping at the strongest drink on the menu while observing John and Lafayette, who were in the process of flirting with, and getting rejected by, every person in the room. Alexander had to admit that it was entertaining, though he would still have preferred to stay at home with his writing.

After five minutes of attempting to convince Alexander to join the duo, John had given him up as a lost cause and left him at the bar. Alexander was surreptitiously checking the exit on the off chance that John or Lafayette would not notice if he snuck out quickly, but unfortunately, so far at least one of them kept close to the door.

A person took a seat next to Alexander. “A Mai Tai,” a man ordered in a deep voice. Alexander turned to look at his new neighbour. He was a tall, dark-skinned man, wearing a custom-tailored suit, by the looks of it. Alexander pegged him for either a CEO or a lawyer.

He must have stared for too long, because the man noticed and looked back at Alexander. He stretched out his hand. “George Washington, at your service."

Alexander shook it. “Alexander Hamilton,” he tried to say, but ended up choking on his drink as the alcohol flowed into the wrong pipe. He coughed a few times, waving off Washington's concern. “Sorry for that. My name is Alexander Hamilton,” he repeated.

Washington studied him. The bartender silently offered him a drink, then disappeared to the other end of the bar to tend to another customer, leaving Alexander alone with the mysterious man. “You are a vampire,” Washington stated bluntly, cutting to the chase. “I didn't expect to find one here, in this bar, not this early in the night, at least."

Alexander tensed and put down his drink, preparing to leave if necessary. He did not know who this Washington was, and better safe than sorry. Meanwhile, Washington raised a hand in surrender. “I am a vampire too," he explained. "No need to worry, my boy.”

“Really?” Alexander perked up, sitting down again. He stared at Washington with renewed interest, and the other man watched him with something akin to amusement. “I have not met anyone else like me yet,” he said excitedly. “Tell me, are there many of us? Is there a special government? Are there any laws that I need to know? Is it true that–”

Washington took a sip of his drink, considered it, then downed it in one go. He gestured for another, then turned back to Alexander. “Lesson number one: There are vampire hunters in this world, who are convinced that we are cruel monsters without a soul. We try to stay hidden, because, while I am personally not afraid of them, I do not like to endanger myself needlessly. So please, do keep your voice down, lest you want to attract one of them. I, for one, have not scheduled an encounter with a vampire hunter into today's itinerary.”

“Okay, sorry,” Alexander winced. Then: “ _Are_ we soulless?” he asked before he could stop himself. He cursed his lack of brain-to-mouth filer.

Washington raised an eyebrow. “Do you feel soulless?” he retorted rhetorically.

“Well, _no_ ,” Alexander said awkwardly, “but I had to ask.”

“I have never killed anyone, ergo I do not think that I deserve to be reduced to a savage animal just yet,” Washington informed him.

Alexander tilted his head. “You said that you have never killed anyone in your life. How long–?” he trailed off, unsure of how to phrase his inquiry.

Washington chuckled wryly. “How long have I been this way, you mean?” he finished for Alexander. “How old am I? Let us see if you can figure it out. I was turned when Lysanias was archon.”

Alexander was bemused, and it must have shown in his face, because Washington chuckled. “That is how we measured years in my youth.”

“I am going to take a guess and say that you are downright ancient.”

“Very good, Mr Holmes," Washington's lip curled up in a half-grin. "Our calendar was based on days and months—we saw no need to refer to events from a certain starting point, not the least because nobody could decide on what that starting point would be.”

“You used one of the older calendars in history, then,” Alexander deduced, “since even Romans used a starting point in measuring time. If I had to take a guess, I would say Attic calendar," a nod from Washington, "which would place your place of birth in Ancient Greece."

Washington grinned. “Even better. You're smart, Alexander Hamilton. Anyway, back to your question: according to the Gregorian calendar, I would be two-thousands, four-hundred and fifty-nine years old."

"How did you–?"

Washington replied before Alexander's question was even fully formed, somehow knowing exactly what Alexander wanted to know. "I was thirteen when the plague swept over Athens, taking thousands of lives, including my parents'. It would have taken mine as well, had I not been turned. A vampire found me, in the throes of the illness, and decided to save me. By killing me, my sire saved my life.”

“Wait–“ Alexander's brain struggled to catch up with the implications of what Washington was saying. It must be the alcohol—but how could the alcohol affect a vampire? “What you're saying is that vampire bodies can still change and evolve, and aren't frozen? Since, you know, you don't exactly look thirteen anymore,” Alexander indicated to Washington's body, who snorted in amusement.

“What have you been reading? _Twilight?_ ” Washington spat out the title as though it was a curse. “Of course we can change. No species has ever not evolved, and we are simply a different—some would say _better_ , but that really depends on your point of view—species. Nobody ever told you what happened to your body on a biological leve, did they?” when Alexander shook his head, Washington launched into an explanation. “A protein in the vampire venom causes our body to be unable to produce new blood, so we need to feed to drink other people's blood in order to survive. On the other hand, that same protein perfects the duplication of our DNA, thus essentially rendering our bodies unchangeable age-wise. We still need to pee, as you have surely noticed by now,” he smiled at his own joke. “We are able to eat, but it is not necessary, as our bodies receive all the proteins and vitamins we need to survive through others' blood. What you need to realize is that our bodies don't have the same functions as a human body does. We don't need to eat, ergo we don't need as much energy in our body, since most energy produced in a human body is directed towards the digestive system. Since we don't need as much energy, we can survive without oxygen for longer periods of time, though we do sometimes need to breathe. We don't need food since a lot of human body functions have been shut down. If we eat, then we need to breathe normally.We still need to pee because we still ingest various things that our bodies don't need, so our blood is remade into urine in our kidneys, which is one of the reasons why we still need to drink and replenish our blood supply, and our body cannot do that on its own. Our heart still does beat, which is one of the few functions we still need energy for, since our bodies still need to circulate blood,” he finished.

Alexander stared at him for a long moment before regaining his wits. “You are a doctor, aren't you," he snorted.

“Among other things, yes. What gave it away?” Washington grinned.

“Among other things?” Alexander prompted, never one to pass up an opportunity to learn.

Washington nodded. “I also consider myself a linguist of sorts,” he supplied succinctly.

“How many languages do you speak?” Alexander challenged.

Washington was quiet for a moment. “Fifteen,” he eventually said, “though some of them might be considered outdated by modern standards.”

Alexander whistled appreciatively. “And here I thought that my six languages were impressive.”

Washington shrugged modestly. “For a human to be fluent in six languages is, indeed, impressive.”

“I mean, obviously English, and since I grew up in Nevis, my mother insisted that I should learn both French and Spanish, since both languages are used in that area,” Alexander launched into an explanation without any prompting from Washington's side. “I picked up some German through a friend, and I took a couple of university classes in Dutch.”

“That's five, Washington remarked. “You said that you spoke six languages.”

Alexander ducked his head. “It's kind of an embarrassing story, to be honest, but I have an annoying neighbour who is a lawyer and just happens to speak Latin. He kept insulting me in Latin, believing that I would not be able to understand him, so I taught myself Latin one day just to spite him.”

By the end of his story, Alexander was grinning. Washington stared at Alexander, then shook his head. “You really are something else, Alexander Hamilton,” he said. His voice took on a wistful tone. “You remind me of my son, actually.”

“What happened to him?” Alexander asked curiously when Washington trailed off into silence.

“He died,” Washington said briskly. “Shot in a duel. Stupid things, duels. I am so grateful that they are a thing of the past.”

“Ah,” Alexander said awkwardly. “Sorry for asking.”

Washington waved his hand dismissively. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn't mean that it doesn't still hurt.”

“True,” Washington inclined his head. “But enough about me,” he said, changing the subject. “How much do you know about the vampire community in New York City?”

Alexander blinked. “Vampire community?” he parroted.

Washington sighed. “We have a lot of work in front of us.”

**

The first thing Washington taught Alexander was the hierarchy of vampires. Vampires customarily live in covens, he said. Usually, there is one or two covens in a city, but in a few metropolises, including New York, there have been as five major covens. There are very few vampires who choose to live alone, simply because there are many advantages to living together with other vampires. ”Sharing blood, protection from inquisitive humans, housing designed specifically to meet our requirements,” Washington rattled off. “The list is practically endless.”

“But you would have to submit to other people,” Alexander protested.

Washington shrugged. “Most people consider it a fair trade.”

“Well, _I_ don't,” Alexander stated tightly.

Washington smirked slightly. “I thought you might say that.”

“Are _you_ part of a coven?” Alexander demanded with an intense look in his eyes. “Because if you are–“

Washington shook his head and cut Alexander off mid-rant. “I, like you, value personal freedom above all. Besides,” he cracked a smile, “if I am not able to provide for myself after two thousand years, what kind of an adult am I?”

“You mentioned an etiquette,” Alexander prompted when Washington did not continue.

Washington cleared his throat. “Yes. In that matter, there is a certain division within our kind. A great majority of older vampires believe that a mortal's blood is ours to take, as we are the superior species–“

“That's all kinds of fucked up logic!” Alexander burst out.

Washington shot him a quick smile. “That is exactly what young vampires think as well. They reckon that drinking blood is not unlike sex,” he said, his voice cracking on the last word, “in that you need the other's person's consent.”

Alexander nodded. “That makes more sense.”

Washington then changed the subject. “If you ever find yourself in urgent need of blood but do not have it at hand, remember that coconut water is an adequate substitute, but only for short-term.”

“Speaking from experience?” Alexander teased.

Washington grinned. “Thankfully not, but I have heard of several cases where coconut water was successfully used as a blood replacement. Coconut water does not, however, contain everything that we need for a continued existence, so I do not recommend it as a long-term solution.”

“What are the consequences of abstaining from blood?” Alexander wondered.

Washington sighed. “Weakened strength and loss of control over oneself, so don't even think about it. Everybody considers abstaining at some point, and it is never worth it. It is an accident just waiting to happen.”

“Lesson learned,” Alexander did not bother denying his thoughts.

Washington continued to educate Alexander on his newly changed life. At some point, John appeared by Alexander's side and said that he and Lafayette needed to get going because they still had work in the morning but that Alexander was more than welcome to remain, considering that he had made a friend. Alexander reassured John that he would be fine.

After John left, Washington raised an eyebrow. “Considerate friend you have there.”

“He is the one who helped me through the realization that I was a vampire,” Alexander said by way of explanation.

“He knows about you,” Washington said in a carefully calm voice. “I wish he did not, but you need to have someone by your side in those first months. It's not an easy change. I do find it odd, though, that your human friend is the one helping you. Where is your sire?” he inquired politely, but there was a steel undertone to his question.

“Who?”

Washington sighed. “The one who turned you. They should have talked you through the change, as well as helped you adjust to your new existence. Did they not offer to help you after your change?”

Alexander furrowed his eyebrows. “No, we never talked. I don't even know who turned me.”

Washington was quiet. When Alexander turned to look at him, his face was livid, contorted into an expression of rage. Alexander instinctively shied away from the older man. “Sir?” he reverted to formalities.

That seemed to shake Washington out of his sinister mood. “Sorry, Alexander,” he apologized. “You have to realize that what your sire did is a despicable crime among our kind. For this, they could be banished from their coven, at the very least.”

“But we can't exactly find them,” Alexander reminded Washington. “It is not like there is a _Guide To Vampires_ that lists everyone's identity.”

“Actually, there might be something similar enough,” Washington realized with a smile. “You see, every vampire's venom is unique, rather like a person's genetic code. When one is first bitten, one's venom is identical to the venom of one's sire. As the youngling matures, the venom adapts and becomes unique to that vampire, though it remains very similar to that of their sire. This is useful, for instance, when applying to join a coven—and yes, you have to apply to join a coven. If you can prove, through your venom, that your sire is part of a coven, you yourself are automatically offered a place in said coven.”

“So like a human family,” Alexander summarized.

“An accurate, if somewhat crude, analogy,” Washington confirmed, "though covens are rather more complicated than the typical human family.”

“Not that I want to be part of a coven,” Alexander rushed to reiterate his opinion.

“You have already said that. Nevertheless, if you are still want to know who sired you, you have a means of discovering their identity,” Washington checked his phone and stifled a curse. “We need to get going,” he stood up and waved over a bartender to pay for their drinks. He raised an eyebrow. “Well? Are you coming?” he headed outside.

Alexander scrambled after Washington, struggling to keep up with the other man's long strides. “Where are we going?” he called out.

Washington cast him an unreadable look. “Home to me. We are by no means done.”

Alexander shot off a quick text to John, explaining that he would not be home if John decided to drop by, and that nothing was wrong and John didn't need to worry, really.

* * *

“The coven thing is bullshit though,” Alexander declared later that morning.

The two of them had long since retired to the couch in Washington's living room, where a mountain-load of books littered the coffee table. Washington had initially wanted to point out the origin of a custom or other, but they ended up arguing about why the coven tradition had not yet been disbanded, as Alexander claimed it should have been ages ago. Alexander was a firm believer that the coven tradition was not only outdated, it was also downright destructive for the vampires as a species.

Washington frankly had no idea how he was dragged into these kinds of discussions, though he could not blame this one on anyone but himself. He just had to indulge his curiosity at the bar earlier that day.

“If we do not unite as one, we will find ourselves at risk of being destroyed by humans,” he argued. “Only through a centralized government can vampires survive this age of continually increased surveillance. We cannot afford to have covens feuding with each other, rather than communicate.”

Washington set down his glass, now empty, as he had been sipping from it throughout Alexander's speech. “You do realize what you are suggesting, my boy,” he warned.

Alexander nodded. “A revolution.”

**Author's Note:**

> Halfway through my explanation of the workings of the vampire government (or the glaring lack thereof), I realized that Hamilton would not stand for this kind of de-centralized shit.


End file.
